In August 2004, Julia Child and I sat in her small, lush garden
in Montecito, California, talking about her life. She was thin
and a bit stooped, but more vigorous than she'd been in weeks.
We were in the midst of writing this book together. When I asked
her what she remembered about Paris in the 1950s, she recalled
that she had learned to cook everything from snails to wild boar
at the Cordon Bleu; that marketing in France had taught her the
value of "les human relations"; she lamented that in her
day the American housewife had to juggle cooking the soup and
boiling the diapers—adding, "if she mixed the two together,
imagine what a lovely combination that would make!"
The idea for My Life in France had been gestating since
1969, when her husband, Paul, sifted through hundreds of letters
that he and Julia had written his twin brother, Charles Child
(my grandfather), from France in 1948–1954. Paul suggested
creating a book from the letters about their favorite, formative
years together. But for one reason or another, the book never
got written. Paul died in 1994, aged ninety-two.
Yet Julia never gave up on the idea, and would often talk about
her intention to write "the France book." She saw it, in part,
as a tribute to her husband, the man who had swept her off to
Paris in the first place.
I was a professional writer, and had long wanted to work on a
collaborative project with Julia. But she was self-reliant, and
for years had politely resisted the idea. In December 2003, she
once again mentioned "the France book," in a wistful tone, and I
again offered to assist her. She was ninety-one, and her health
had been waxing and waning. This time she said, "All right, dearie, maybe we should
work on it together."
My job was simply to help Julia tell her story, but it wasn't
always easy. Though she was a natural performer, she was
essentially a private person who didn't like to reveal herself.
We started slowly, began to work in sync, and eventually built a
wonderfully productive routine. For a few days every month, I'd
sit in her living room asking questions, reading from family
letters, and listening to her stories. At first I taped our
conversations, but when she began to poke my tape recorder with
her long fingers, I realized it was distracting her, and took
notes instead. The longer we talked about "little old France,"
the more she remembered, often with vivid intensity—"Ooh, those
lovely roasted, buttery French chickens, they were so good and
chickeny!"
Many of our best conversations took place over a meal, on a car
ride, or during a visit to a farmers' market. Something would
trigger a memory, and she'd suddenly tell me about how she
learned to make baguettes in Paris, or bouillabaisse in
Marseille, or how to survive a French dinner party—"Just speak
very loudly and quickly, and state your position with utter
conviction, as the French do, and you'll have a marvelous time!"
Almost all of the words in these pages are Julia's or Paul's.
But this is not a scholarly work, and at times I have blended
their voices. Julia encouraged this approach, pointing out that
she and Paul often signed their letters "PJ" or "Pulia," as if
they were two halves of one person. I wrote some of the
exposition and transitions, and in so doing tried to emulate
Julia's idiosyncratic word choices—"Plop!," "Yuck!," "Woe!," "Hooray!" Once I had gathered enough material, I would write up
a vignette; she would avidly read it, correct my French, and add
things as they occurred to her in small, rightward-slanting
handwriting. She loved this process, and was an exacting editor.
"This book energizes me!" she declared.
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